


This

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Meet-Cute, Other, Sassy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: The only remarkable thing about the village of This, other than its conceptual name, is that This has two vicars. The nuisance - or a blessing - stems from the fact that a long time ago, approximately before the witch trials and Henry VIII, the place was lively. A new motorway took care of what a few angry men couldn't and, entirely by mistake, took care of many other angry men in the process. It's a quiet place with two churches and two vicars. And only one pub.Or, vicar Aziraphale meets the owner of a new pub and is... Tempted.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what I'm doing. But there's only one pub

The only remarkable thing about the village of This, other than its conceptual name, is that This has two vicars. The nuisance - or a blessing - stems from the fact that a long time ago, approximately before the witch trials and Henry VIII, the place was lively. A new motorway took care of what a few angry men couldn't and, entirely by mistake, took care of many other angry men in the process. It's a quiet place with two churches and two vicars. 

Here they are. 

One is Gabriel Fell. He's stern, right as an angle - and is married to a queer anarchistic writer Bea, who's, according the opinion of half the village, is the reverend's only redeeming quality. 

Gabriel Fell is conventionally handsome - tall, square-jawed, cleanly shaven. He's a bore. No one knows why Bea married him. They could have had it so much better. 

The other is Aziraphale Fell. He is indeed related to Gabriel Fell. They are cousins. Actually, they are brothers, but everyone thinks it's a ruse, because there's no way the same genetic material could have produced such polar opposites. They might as well have been two poles of a planet who had gone sentient and ran away to start their own. 

Aziraphale Fell is a delight. He's kind. He's funny. He's generous. He's forgiving. He loves a good meal, a good bottle of wine, a nice cake. He's polite with everyone. He's a bit feral when it comes to his books, but he will lend them to a parishioner in need of something blasphemous without a third thought. He's too smart to avoid having a second thought. 

Reverend Fell II, or as he's known in This, reverend Aziraphale, to distinguish him from his… blood/planetary relative, is gayer than two fierce gay swans protecting the eggs of their surrogate swan partner who they have a good frog and worm with every now and then. 

Just like swans, reverend Aziraphale mates for life, apparently, and so does reverend Fell, which incidentally might be the only thing they have in common.

Where Gabriel is hard, Aziraphale is soft. Where Gabriel has black hair, Aziraphale is blond. Where Gabriel is sure, Aziraphale is doubting. 

The bishop secretly prefers Aziraphale, but is afraid of Gabriel's charisma, which, fair. Even Gabriel is afraid of his charisma because he never argues with his own reflection. He once tried arguing with Bea, and it didn't end well for Gabriel.

This has just one pub which both reverends find absolutely detestful. After all, their parishioners fight there, and the owner, Mr Shadwell, gets so excited about the theology of it all, that he doesn't pay much attention to the quality of his drinks and food. 

But other than that, the life in This is peaceful. 

And then boom and dramatic music and the swell of violins and perhaps even an oboe, for a bigger dramatic effect. 

One Anthony J. Crowley has bought a place right in front of the Witchfinder's Justice (Shadwell is a peculiar chap with bad oral hygiene) and announced that there soon will be a new pub, Snake and Apple. 

The place isn't that big, but soon everyone can see that it's being redesigned, rebuilt, made into something cosy and smartly decorated, all dark colours and darker nooks… It promises to be a good place. 

Shadwell pretends to have a heart attack, but there's a football match on that day, so nobody notices and Shadwell has to pretend that he hasn't pretended. 

Shadwell's distress and dare we say, blight can be understood. His family has been owning the place since forever. Henry VIII might have taken a shit here at some point. 

Every day both reverends pass by Snake and Apple and can't help looking inside. Oh, it looks better with each day! 

The menu on the door teases with kidney pies, apple traybakes, mouthwatering sandwiches with many ingredients most of which are probably unhealthy but sound so good together that it's practically a poem! There are also salads. There's also beer. And wine.

"He does promise too much!" Gabriel huffs. 

"He promises so much!" Aziraphale coos. 

"You should eat less!" Gabriel eyes Aziraphale's belly which is as full as his heart. 

"You should eat something!" Aziraphale implores. 

"Could you fucking stop this shit! I'm trying to cook!" An angry voice says. 

Both reverends snap their heads. There's a lanky young man by the door. He has messy red hair and his eyes are hidden behind very stylish sunglasses. His hips spell sin (hips can't spell, that's the point), his clothes are black. 

"Language!" Gabriel says. Chides. Behaves like an arse. 

"So sorry, dear fellow. My brother is permanently hungry and is therefore bitter. Aziraphale Fell, reverend." Aziraphale offers his hand to the stranger. 

"Crowley," Crowley nods gracefully. He is very graceful, this Crowley who promises pies, cakes and beer and multidimensional sandwiches. 

"And I am reverend Fell," says reverend Fell. 

"And I'm irreverent," Crowley shrugs. 

However irreverent he might be, he seems to be… looking at Aziraphale Fell, reverend, with… perhaps even reverence. 

"Would you like a tour?" Crowley suggests suddenly. Out of the blue. Of Aziraphale's eyes. "Or maybe a… tasting?" And he grins. 

Despite his status, Aziraphale isn't an exceedingly religious man. He just thinks that the church is a bit prettier than social work, besides, as a vicar, he can be partial, and therefore naughty. He doesn't share this quite baroque line of thought with his brother. Basically, Aziraphale can't resist temptation, especially if it means raining presumably the Almighty's wrath upon bullies and hypocrites. 

And so Aziraphale can't resist that grin. It's delightful, it's delectable, it's delicious, it's devilish, devious, irresistible. 

"I think I'd love to!" Aziraphale decides. "It's only polite to welcome a new person!" He looks at Gabriel, for approval or disapproval… Gabriel is scandalised, perhaps, but he loves his brother, and no matter what he says, he loves seeing his brother enjoying himself. 

"Go taste your pies. I have a sermon to write." Gabriel blushes. Aziraphale knows that Bea writes his sermons as a writing exercise. They disagree with everything Gabriel has to say, but they are a fearsome orator. 

Crowley steps inside and Aziraphale follows. 

It's a lovely, lovely, lovely place! Crowley has made the most of the small space, filled it with tables and booths and mismatched lamps which, combined together, look almost as good as a Chagall painting. 

While Shadwell's place is dark because it's dirty, Crowley's place is dark because sleep, comfort and calm often require darkness. 

The bar is already full of various bottles, djinns and gin and whiskey and beer and ale and wine.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and smells… it smells like a home he's only ever dreamed of. It's warm, it's a loud smell, it tickles, it sounds like a door that one's significant other opens at the end of the day…

"Tracey and Ana are out at the moment. Ana is a bartender and Tracey helps me cook. She makes wicked pastries." Crowley takes off his glasses. His eyes are a bit dull, perhaps, but they are… kind and curious. 

Aziraphale tastes a bit of everything. He moans around various mouthfuls. He doesn't notice it when Crowley uncorks a bottle of whiskey and chugs some down. 

When Aziraphale does notice it, Crowley is a bit tipsy, although, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, it's mostly because Crowley wears very tight clothes that have grown tighter due to Aziraphale's public displays of food appreciation. 

"My dear… I wish I could be your only patron, but I promise you, This will love you! Your cooking is amazing… Are you stress drinking?" 

"No, I'm tasting my own whiskey. It's a pub after all." Crowley chugs some more. He'll regret it but fuck it.

He pulls his many long legs out of the chair along with the rest of him, also long, and strays to the kitchen.

"My dear?" Aziraphale calls. It's nothing personal. Everyone is dear to him. 

Especially and including the feast that he's been tasting. He tastes some more. Apples and beef and cranberries and … everything turns into a flurry of taste and the taste feels so bold that it means to conquer all the other senses.

Crowley returns with a tin. "Here. It's a pie," Crowley introduces. "Kidney, beans, onions, every good thing. For you. On the house."

He strays away again, swaying a bit, because he's tipsy and perhaps not fully human. 

Aziraphal looks at the pie. The pie looks at him. They come to an understanding, which is, ridiculously, that the pie is more of a letter, and the letter is more of a mess if words, and the mess of words is mostly about… "how about we have lunch?"

Aziraphale speaks pie fluently. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is awkward

Snake and Apple is a hit. People eat there and drink there and celebrate their birthdays there and just sit there. If it goes like this, then soon This will have tourists, or so grumble the remaining two patrons of The Witchfinder's Justice, one of which is Shadwell who says that Snake and Apple is a den of iniquity meant to perish in order to set an example. Shadwell has been to Snake and Apple and left it in a food coma, but he's a stubborn man.

Reverend Fell prefers to visit pubs only once a week, but he needs to be impartial, therefore he stops his weekly tradition of a tiny portion of ale.

Reverend Aziraphale likes visiting pubs, and now that it's pleasant and delicious, he does so more often, which wouldn't be wise financially, but Crowley feeds him on the house. It's called a tasting.

Or a bribery. 

Or a smooth seduction technique, because Crowley isn't subtle. He mumbles and says  _ ngk _ when he sees Aziraphale, he stumbles and almost drops dishes when he hasn't seen Aziraphale the moment the good vicar enters. He sits by Aziraphale and watches Aziraphale devour his kidney pies and wildly beating heart. It's called a… a… a search for constructive criticism. 

Once Crowley even has breakfast with Aziraphale, but while Aziraphale eats in morsels and has to moan around each one and coo at every second one, Crowley kind of just swallows his food. 

"My dear, do you chew?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Should I?" Crowley asks. 

"I heard it's good for one's digestion." Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, because it's Aziraphale's nature. He welcomes the citizens of the world, be they a bug, a tree or a tall skinny man in very tight jeans. 

Tracy, a kind middle-aged woman with fiery hair and a sweet tooth that she intends to persuade everyone else to have, suggests Crowley should ask Aziraphale out. 

"Where?" Crowley demands. He's chugging something, probably alcoholic, from a flask. Ana warily eyes an almost empty bottle of bourbon and sighs. "It's my place. I shouldn't… fraternise with a patron."

"Fraternise?" Tracy giggles. 

"Yes. Fraternise." Crowley chugs. Ana thinks he's a barbarian so she serves him the last of bourbon in appropriate glassware. 

Oh, and it's morning, but don't judge. I googled it and it's ok to day drink during a personal crisis. Crowley is having a personal crisis. Besides, it's called a tasting. 

"I doubt you want to be his brother," Ana remarks. 

"Fuck, no!" Crowley wants to spit out but it's a good bourbon, so he doesn't. 

"Alright… I'll better check them breakfast scones and muffins," Tracy says knowingly. 

Ana works as a waitress during the day, so she finds herself something to do as well. 

"Just don't go to church," she warns. 

"I thought about it. No way." Crowley shakes his head. 

When Aziraphale shows up, Crowley grins at him and waves his bourbon in the air. 

"My dear boy, are you already drunk?" Aziraphale asks, heartbroken. 

"I might be. A bit. On your company?" 

"No, I've just arrived, it won't do." Aziraphale sits next to Crowley, because Crowley occupies Aziraphale's usual table. "Is everything alright, Crowley?"

Crowley looks at Aziraphale with heartbreak in his sunglasses, although perhaps he just has to replace them. 

"My eyes are dull. I'm photosensitive. I'm drunk in the morning. To be or not to be…" 

"Crowley, my dear fellow, do you need help here during the day?" 

Ana puts Aziraphale's breakfast on the table and tries to kick Crowley, but Aziraphale looks at her as if she were about to kick a puppy for the sin of falling in love with a baby raven. It's a stern look, Ana thinks and thinks about it better. 

Aziraphale carefully cuts a piece of sausage and offers it to Crowley. 

Crowley eyes the piece and Aziraphale. "I'd like to hand feed you, but you're a vicar and it's inappropriate."

"A common misconception. Open up."

Crowley opens up and swallows the piece. 

"You need to chew, my dear! You eat like a snake and walk like a snake!"

"Ana believes in conspiracy theories, unless they are about Jews, so I'm not a snake, otherwise she'd refuse to work with me… or she's a spy!" Crowley looks properly horrified. 

"My dear, I'm putting you to bed." Aziraphale, despite his proclamation, takes his sweet time finishing his food, but then he's all energy and determination. 

He takes Crowley to the apartment above the pub, finds the bedroom, as well as some aspirin, and puts Crowley to bed. 

Then he marches into the kitchen. 

"What's going on?" He asks. 

"Crowley has a crush on you," Ana says, unhelpfully.

"Yes, alright, figured as much. Why is he drunk in the morning?" Aziraphale could be much more menacing, but alas, he's blushing. Crowley is sweet and cooks so well and looks at Aziraphale like no one has ever looked at Aziraphale.

"He has a crush on you," Tracy explains, equally unhelpful. 

"I don't get it, but you must need some help and I'm here to provide it." Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves and starts helping. He does the dishes and everything that's asked of him, as he attends his meetings of the day via phone calls. He ignores raised eyebrows and prying questions. 

But he does say, once the hour is quiet, "It is deeply unethical to voice out someone's feelings before they are ready to admit having them. This is my theological opinion."

With this he leaves to check on Crowley.

Crowley is dancing in his personal kitchen. He doesn't look like a snake. He looks like a marine worm who is evolution-wise much more awesome than a snake and seems to just enjoy life and go with the flow while making very graceful movements.

"See you're feeling better," Aziraphale says, not too dreamily. 

Crowley falls over backwards. "Fuck! Shit! I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright, my dear." Aziraphale crouches next to Crowley. They look at each other as if each had never seen anything more beautiful than the other. 

"I'm sorry. It was embarrassing. Are you going to… curse me? Will the sacred ground burn my feet?"

"No more than usual, dear boy. Let's get you back on your feet." Aziraphale gives him a hand. Crowley gingerly takes it. Aziraphale's hand is soft and Crowley's hand is that of a man who has to work for his bread. 

"I bet you know to do all sorts of things with those hands of yours." Aziraphale says it and only then realises that he's flirting.

Crowley is blushing like only gingers can. It's a full blown explosion. Boom, boom, bang, awesome special effects. 

"I can… do most everything. Also can make a good pie."

Aziraphale laughs. They are still holding hands, but Crowley is standing now. 

"I'll see you tomorrow for… lunch?" Aziraphale decides to accept the pie invitation. At last. 

"Oh… oh, it's lovely. Fantastic… Ngk…"

"Quite right too," Aziraphale says. Well, more like whispers.

"I never asked to be so ridiculous," Crowley admits. 

"Oh, it's fine, Crowley. I doubt it would be possible to look at you, were you not ridiculous."

Aziraphale catches himself flirting  _ again.  _ He might as well be on fire. 

"Ok… I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll come by in the evening too," Aziraphale spontaneously adds. "For a pint or…"

"There's good cider," Crowley says hopefully. 

They are still holding hands by the way. It's awkward. 

"Really? I'd really love to have a tasting."

Aziraphale inwardly curses himself because he keeps flirting, and in his mind, since swans mate for life, he doesn't need to flirt. It should be more… like Shakespeare in Soviet translation, which is a not so humble bard with a beard and about zero passions. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is a man of passions. He loves life in all its glory, he loves love because it's really the best feeling, be it directed towards a pie or a person. Or Shakespeare, for that matter. 

They are still holding hands. Maybe that's what happens when one holds hands with a marine worm.

"See you soon, angel," Crowley whispers. 

Aziraphale swoons. No one has ever called him an angel… He might get used to it. 

"What… what does J stand for?" Aziraphale whispers. Perhaps they are paranoid, I don't know. Do you?

"It's… a J. It's a good letter, you know? You can fish with it."

"Oh, I'd like to see you try…" Aziraphale purrs. He really should stop flirting. (Aziraphale, don't stop flirting. You're so charming you can say utter bullshit and it will be lovely. Luckily, Crowley is up to the challenge. Crowley flirts with sequences of consonants. They are still holding hands.)

"Ngk."

"Also looks like a ladle. Might be useful."

"Absolutely. No risks in my profession."

"My dear, please, don't get drunk in the morning. I'm jealous." 

"Ngk."

Aziraphale is delighted, so he laughs and inadvertently almost kills Crowley. 

"Ngk."

"You said so, my dear. Now, give me my hand back and I'll see you in the evening."

"Can I keep it? Could use a hand." Oh, Crowley can flirt badly too, see. They deserve each other and their kingdom of sweet and awful flirting. 

"I'd love to help some day."

(It's getting hot in here, isn't it?)

"See you, angel."

"See you, my dear."

Aziraphale might hop over the stairs but shush, it's probably undignified, don't tell anybody.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's Goethe.

"You did what?" Crowley roars. 

"We sort of… outed you," Ana offers, just a bit embarrassed. She's embarrassed enough not to be embarrassed about not being embarrassed, if it makes any sense, and if it doesn't, bugger all. 

"Ana, you believe in conspiracy theories! And you take part in one!" Crowley grabs his hair and tries to pull himself out of this swamp of feelings and suchlike. 

"It's only a theory, if it's proved," Ana remarks with a shrug. 

"Oh, don't Feynman me, you witch!"

"Children! Shut the fuck up!" Tracy demands in a kind voice. "Crowley, dear, your vicar has helped us and he chides us enough for revealing your frankly transparent secret."

One can never be angry with Tracy, but Crowley is known for never knowing when to give up, so he doesn't give up. "Not my vicar. There are no secrets. You shut up!"

And he cooks. 

He cooks some more.

He pre-cooks when there's nothing left to cook.

Then it's evening, so he makes an honest effort to put some order to his hair, smudging some dough on it in the process. Neither Ana, nor Tracy mention it because… conspiracy theories!?

"You look unfairly good in this dim light," Crowley says as he slides smoothly into a chair in front of Aziraphale, the vicar. 

"You should see me in the morning. Total mess," Aziraphale replies, sipping his cider. "My dear, do you have any clue as to how to use a chair?"

"Yes, you put your bum on the horizontal part. Why?"

"Fair enough… Oh dear, I flirted with you, again!" 

"Don't mind if you do! Flirt more!" Crowley rests his chin on his hand. His legs do something under the table without violating the  _ bum on the horizontal part  _ rule. Oh dear, what will Aziraphale do with him? Oh dear, Aziraphale is blushing.

"I can't do it on demand! I need inspiration!"

"I could be your inspiration, angel," Crowley says sincerely. 

"Hope you aren't drunk, my dear… Oh bugger all, dear boy! Have some cider with me!"

Crowley quirks his eyebrow. Grabs Aziraphale's cider. Drinks all of it. Perhaps he's making a show of the way his Adam's apple is moving as he's swallowing… The things Aziraphale could… Aaaaalright. Too early in the day, definitely too early in the night. Right. 

Anyone knows where we were? Yeah, neither do I. 

"Dear boy, this indulgence of yours is… sinful."

"Mea culpa, angel."

"Not a Catholic, my dear. Imagine the sheer angst I'd have to subject myself to!"

Crowley grabs Aziraphale's hand. "Angel. No angst for you. Fluff. And smut."

"Crowley, you're positively… feral. I like it."

Crowley isn't used to flirting or being flirted at. Now, imagine the poor fellow's trouble! He's being flirted at by someone as… by reverend Aziraphale, who's all smiles and soft curves and light colours, and mind you, reverend Aziraphale can make the statement  _ white is the new black  _ true. A dangerous, dangerous angel!

Crowley stands up and goes to Ana who pours him more cider. And pours even more cider to Aziraphale. Crowley returns with the spoils of war, pardon bar. Damn autocorrect, am I right?

"So, where were we?" Crowley plays it smooth. He isn't desperate. 

"You were drinking in the morning, and now you're drinking again. Should I be worried about you, my dear?"

Aziraphale tends to destroy postmodernism with sincerity and genuine wit. 

"No. I'm… I… I have no fucking clue what to do with my emotions most of the time, because it's either I feel too much or I don't feel enough, and with you it's kind of both at the same time?.."

"What  _ are  _ your emotions?"

"Angel, you can't be my therapist."

"Could be your vicar."

"Atheist."

"Sexy." Aziraphale can make a show of himself drinking cider. There are a few rivulets of it escaping his mouth. He's as warm and full of life as Falstaff, but without the debauchery, although he'd approve of that. His brother wouldn't. 

"What is sexy? Me, being an atheist?"

"See, my dear, the problem is this. You may not believe in the Almighty, but the Almighty never loses their faith in you. It might get boring, being eternal and omniscient, and I have a feeling that you're nothing but predictable."

"That's a lot to live up to."

"Or, perhaps, the Almighty wants you to doubt them. Doubt is the soul of discovery."

"Do  _ you  _ doubt, reverend?"

"I was an angel just a moment ago!"

"Do you doubt, angel?"

"I always do, dear boy. There are always things to be doubted."

"Don't quote Hamlet, ok? Hate it! Gloomy!"

Aziraphale laughs at that. His laugh is quiet but it takes hold of his entire body. If Crowley is a marine worm, then Aziraphale is the ocean, changeable and unknowable. 

"Don't make me yearn for you," Crowley asks seriously. "It's too early for that."

Aziraphale nods in acquiescence. "I'm sorry, my dear."

"Don't be. I'm but a lanky red-head. Have pity."

"I can't love what I pity, though. And I have mercy on everyone. Comes with the job, really. What should I have for you, dear boy?"

Crowley ponders the question. "Witty reluctance. You should resist me but you can't!" 

Crowley is pale and in the dim light of his pub he's but some space briefly conquered from the darkness to whisper something into Aziraphale's ear and slip away, like Mephisto. Crowley has red hair instead of the red lining of his cloak, but he doesn't have a cloak either, unless the darkness can be counted as such.

"You'll have to work for it," Aziraphale replies foolishly. 

Crowley leans on the table again, his chin on his hand, his clumsiness - a wicked grace, only revealed to the willing. 

" _ Thus thou pleasest me. _

_ I hope we'll suit each other well; _

_ For now, thy vapors to dispel, _

_ I come, a squire of high degree, _

_ In scarlet coat, with golden trimming, _

_ A cloak in silken lustre swimming, _

_ A tall cock's-feather in my hat, _

_ A long, sharp sword for show or quarrel,— _

_ And I advise thee, brief and flat, _

_ To don the self-same gay apparel, _

_ That, from this den released, and free, _

_ Life be at last revealed to thee _ ."

Aziraphale is stunned so much he wants to retreat into the shadows, but shadows seem to obey Crowley and pay no mind to a well-meaning vicar. 

"So… you want to woo me with Goethe?" Aziraphale tries for easy-going charm.

"No, angel, I might have Goethe woo you for me, sing my praises… Ok, this is ridiculous and absolutely foolish! Fuck, what was I thinking!" Crowley makes sure that the dough smudge in his hair covers at least half his head.

"You were trying to woo me with Goethe… I wouldn't be able to resist," Aziraphale replies sadly. 

"You're always free to resist, angel," Crowley says softly. "Fight, fight, fight it with all of your might. And I take it you're mighty."

"Mighty enough to make you an alcoholic, it seems."

"If you drive me to sin, then what sort of a vicar are you?.. Angel, it's just a game, I'm sorry, it shouldn't be so, it should be more real!"

"My dear boy, I grew up with books. To me, few things are more real than Mephisto. I won't pretend to be able to resist, but I will try. If only to make it more entertaining for you. Now… should we have more cider?"


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale tries telling himself that his imagination is toying with him - but it implies that his imagination has a will of its own, and it doesn't make any sense. 

So he must want this, then. He must want to see Crowley as something more than it's earthly possible. Isn't it natural to make someone one's attracted to, into something more, to weave them into one's dreams and fantasies? Isn't just pure luck to have that person feel at home there, in one's dreams and fantasies? Crowley is grinning at Aziraphale, devilish and boyish, from Aziraphale's mind where Crowley is sprawling over some old memories and even older dreams as if he belonged there. Doesn't he belong there, his kind demon, his naughty Mephisto with a cloak of shadows and red hair. 

But it might still be just his imagination. Aziraphale firmly believes, however, that imagination is to reality what a plan is to an architect. He knows that it's possible to turn this dream into a solid house, into something eternal, like a cathedral. 

And so Aziraphale steps into Crowley's pub the next evening - to see Crowley building a fucking cathedral out of shot glasses and filling them with vodka and setting the whole thing on fire while Ana is cheering.

Crowley's eyes land on Aziraphale, which Aziraphale knows despite the everpresent shades covering his eyes, yellow or brown and more than a little short-sighted. Perhaps, being a demon, Crowley's eyes are more appropriate for looking at the sun - although Crowley could be the sun himself. Aziraphale would really like to set his orbit around him. 

It's a bit too fast for him, but he can feel the tug already. He does feel like Mercury, small and neat, close to the sun and quite content… It doesn't make sense either, but Aziraphale's treacherous legs carry him over to Crowley who's on his way to Aziraphale. 

"Hey, angel. Sorry about that show. Someone has a birthday," he says confidentially. 

Aziraphale looks back at the counter and realises it's Shadwell there. He's staring at the vodka cathedral on fire in awe - until he turns his head, searching for someone or something, and his eyes find Crowley. Aziraphale feels hurt with how much yearning that old homophobe can put into one glance. 

"He's in love with you," Aziraphale blurts out. Crowley's hand is around his shoulders, welcome and light, almost friendly but for the firm grasp of those long fingers on Aziraphale's arm. 

"More fool him." Crowley shrugs. "Serves him right. Bigot! What's his name again?"

Aziraphale gazes up at Crowley. 

Crowley isn't smirking or teasing or being smug about it. He seems to be focused solely on Aziraphale. There's nothing else he'd look at, or so it seems, and the uncertainty is killing Aziraphale, like curiosity kills the cat, how quantum mechanics tortured Einstein. And he invented the thing!

"Poor Shadwell. Never knew… makes sense…"

"You!" Shadwell calls. He's all bitter and angry, and the other patrons don't approve. "Pansy! Getting handsy with the new lad? Leave him alone!" He almost growls and he's definitely drunk. 

Crowley's jaw is tight and tense. The shadows rush to him, curl around him like heavy black velvet and his head is fire and anger.

"I'll have you tossed out, birthday or not! You fucking piece of shit!" Crowley is hissing and spitting, the place goes quiet and crazy. He almost snarls. Be he a demon, a walking nuisance or Aziraphale's worked up imagination, but he is bending the time-space around himself and Aziraphale. If he's Mephisto, then Aziraphale is totally alright with being led into temptation by him. He'd follow willingly, because actually no one has ever been so protective of him. It's Aziraphale who does the protection all the time - but his demon will have none of it. 

"So sorry, angel, I'll get rid off him," Crowley promises, leading Aziraphale into a booth instead of temptation. "What should I bring you? Are you hungry? How about a kidney pie on the house?"

Aziraphale can't actually say a word. He's looking up at Crowley and only manages to mouth, "What?"

"Angel, did he hurt you? Are you uncomfortable? Should I turn him into a kidney pie?"

"It's illegal."

"Well, ok. I won't. Be right back!"

No one pays attention to Shadwell anymore. Even the vodka cathedral is getting dull. 

Crowley gets back with pie and ale. 

Aziraphale suddenly feels like a fool, and a drunk one at that, but if it's so, then he doesn't care anymore because Crowley moves like lava, bright, hot and unstoppable. Aziraphale wouldn't argue with a force of nature. 

"Will you come back to mine afterwards?" He asks Crowley. 

Crowley's head snaps up. Aziraphale expects him to grin and tease, but instead, Crowley says, "Sure, angel. Anything you want."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update bc I can't write normally sized chapters.

Aziraphale wakes up when it's barely dawn. The air is cold and grey and there's someone holding Aziraphale carefully in his sleep. He rolls over making Crowley grumble something in his sleep.

He's beautiful. His hands seek Aziraphale's closeness again, his brow frowned. 

The memory swings at Aziraphale like an excited viking with an axe - kisses, long and wet, soft, delicious, but mostly just so, so long; those fingers that twitch for Aziraphale now, caressing and  _ fuck worshipping  _ the previous night; the short gasps, the unashamed groans, the cries of pleasure, so much pleasure for both of them; the way Crowley's dull eyes glowed in the dark as he searched Aziraphale's face for any signs of discomfort…

This is love, Aziraphale thinks bluntly. This is fucking silly and this is love. Aziraphale considers himself a reasonable man, he doesn't rush into things, but he'd rush into anything, including a burning building, for Crowley. 

He remembers how Crowley's eyes pinned him to the floor from behind a tower of burning glasses…

He remembers Crowley kissing Aziraphale's belly and whispering  _ I'd walk into a fire for you _ .

Perhaps Aziraphale shouldn't trust the words said in a fit of passion but Aziraphale knows passion, and none of his  _ passionate  _ trysts has left him vulnerable and wanting for more. Here it comes, he thinks, greed. 

"Angel, you're alright?" Crowley asks sleepily, his voice raspy. 

"You're here, dear boy… you're still here." 

Crowley seems puzzled.

"Why would I be anywhere else?"

"Well… I… we…"

"You're fantastic. I don't want to be anywhere else unless you want me to be somewhere else." Crowley is liquid on Aziraphale's bed, he doesn't even lift his head, but he's all gravity and pull and temptation. 

"You regret it?" Crowley asks quietly.

"We barely know each other. Other than biblically."

"Do you want me to leave?"

Aziraphale kisses him instead, tries for one of those long kisses Crowley gave him. If Crowley's sigh into Aziraphale's mouth is any indication, Aziraphale is doing quite well. 

"I saw you…" Aziraphale whispers. He's too out of breath to talk. 

Crowley touches Aziraphale's curls, pale and dull in the barely there light. "I saw you too."

"We need to… to think. What is it?"

"This is you. Here you are." Crowley leans up for another kiss. Apparently he doesn't need to breathe if he has his tongue down Aziraphale's throat. "Here I am."

There must be a conversation there! There should be! But Crowley's breath is all over Aziraphale's face, Crowley's lips are on Aziraphale's, there's nothing else that makes much sense. 

"I must be imagining things."

"You're doing so well, angel."

"I saw you and I see the… I see everything swirl and twirl around you, I see a world there, in you…"

"I'd be honoured to be your promised land. Or I could get all heroic and stupid and deserve it. Deserve you." 

Aziraphale pushes back a bit, to look at Crowley. He's serious, he's a dreamer too, Aziraphale can tell. Only dreamers quote Goethe like that.

"We barely know each other… Bugger it." Aziraphale kisses Crowley again. 

They stay like that until the sun is up. Crowley is getting dressed - and kisses Aziraphale before he leaves, and then returns and kisses Aziraphale again. 

And does it again. "Handsome awesome angel… come to mine for breakfast. I'll make you something good." 

He kisses Aziraphale again. He definitely doesn't need to breathe. 

"I'll make you whatever you want. I won't make anything if you don't want." He looks at Aziraphale, cupping his face. "You're wonderful. Enchanted me, you wicked vicar."

He finally saunters away, a hop in his step, a sway of his hips. He's a very mischievous star and Aziraphale doesn't think he can look at a proper star the same way ever again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Mostdismalfeldsparkle's wonderful fic "More Perfect" Crowley describes himself as "a Crowley". So this chapter is for you, dear friend.

Aziraphale is lying on his side, looking at Crowley who's looking back at him with a smile that would like to be a smirk but is in fact something smitten and old. 

(The night after their first night Crowley returned to Aziraphale. And the next night, and the next, and another night, until he was there all the time, and Aziraphale could remember his breathless plea of  _ please stay darling please don't go again  _ but he hadn't counted on Crowley to listen to him, and yet Crowley would always listen to him, as Aziraphale was about to learn, and Crowley stayed. 

A few months into that  _ arrangement _ , Crowley said that he couldn't possibly be forcing a vicar to live in sin so they should get married. 

"We  _ are  _ living in sin, according to some," Aziraphale reminded.

"That passage of Leviticus is about pedophiles, actually. We're both consenting sexy adults." 

"Are you biblesplaining?" Aziraphale wanted to tease, but it ended in a kiss. Crowley tasted of an apple pie he'd cooked just for Aziraphale. In Aziraphale's kitchen. There was dough everywhere and Aziraphale… might have eaten quite a lot of it off Crowley's… ehm… form.

And Crowley was saying something about the eggs, although Aziraphale was sure that no eggs were involved, but what did he know? Besides it tasted so good… Living in sin, right. 

"I am. Marry me, vicar. Make an honest man out of me!" 

Aziraphale couldn't have refused such a request. Gabriel begrudgingly married them the following day.)

"What is this look, angel?"

"You don't kiss me Sunday morning."

"You asked me to stop doing it!"

(Aziraphale did. He did. He said he had a job to do and Crowley was keeping him away from his duty. 

Crowley, being his darling, cuddly devil, replied that he had a duty to his husband too. Theology had to be banned from their flirting. And marital bliss.)

"Yes, but you obeyed!" Aziraphale pouted. 

"We've been married for two years, angel, your pouting doesn't work on me anymore," Crowley says, his voice shaking. 

Aziraphale pouts harder. Crowley resists. 

"I want a kiss!" 

"I want one too! You told me to stop kissing you first thing on Sunday morning! I make up for it the rest of the week!" Crowley argues. "You have a sermon to give and a service to lead and… Fuck me, angel!" Crowley doesn't mean it literally, dear sweet thing, and Aziraphale would pout even harder (his pout is bottomless) but his mouth is otherwise occupied. 

"Did you kiss all the others like that? Long and wet and is it a human tongue?" Aziraphale knows the answers to it all - Crowley never kissed anyone like that and his tongue is human. Vaguely. 

So Crowley ignores it to get more kissing done. Aziraphale delivers most of his sermons with very red lips, and  _ bugger all dear boy _ . 

"You're such an obedient husband."

"Ngk."

"I love you, my dearest friend, my beautiful demon."

"I love you, angel. Can't be a demon, though. I'm Mr Fell now, I'm Mr Angel, Mr Vicar."

"Or maybe I am Mr Demon, Mr Crowley and so forth… Kiss me again, Mr Vicar."

Crowley rolls his eyes because he knows that Aziraphale will fuss and curse and hurry up afterwards, but Crowley can't refuse him a thing and Aziraphale kisses like an angel, which is, every time they kiss, Crowley is in heaven. 

Eventually, Aziraphale does get up and gets along with his day. There are Crowley's kisses all over his body, safely hidden under his clothes. Aziraphale has never wanted an armour, but Crowley has given him one all the same. 

("Where I kiss you, no harm can touch you," Crowley promised on their wedding night. "Where I kiss you, you're safe and sound… Turn over, angel, I need to protect all of you, and there's at least half of you I haven't touched yet. Today." That devilish smirk, that bashful smile, that smitten look…

Yes, Aziraphale tended to look smugly at Shadwell. He figured Shadwell had deserved it, having spent years insulting Aziraphale… It took a Crowley. It should always take a Crowley. 

Bea, an old-fashioned anarchist and revolutionary who'd swear to rain fire on everything in their way but would never actually do anything harmful, told that Shadwell had it coming. Everyone hummed  _ Cell Block Tango  _ the rest of the evening, but they had a point. They always did.)

"You look handsome, angel."

"Says my husband, standing there in his skinny jeans and nothing else."

"Says  _ my  _ husband, standing there and shamelessly covering all that softness and… roundness…"

"You feed me well."

"I want you, angel. I'm horny."

"Darling! I'm sore!"

"I'm not." Crowley shrugs. 

"Not for long," Aziraphale threatens. 

"I do hope so. I'll be waiting, love." Crowley walks over, kisses Aziraphale's ear and behind it. "I love you, angel. You've tricked this old devil…"

"You're ten years younger, darling."

"And you're ten years older. Doesn't mean… a thing. You smell so good." Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale's neck. "Go. Deliver that sermon. I'll make you… whatever you want. The lunch is in the church already. I love you."

Aziraphale sighs and leaves. 

The sun is nowhere to be seen, it's going to rain, but his church is full. Gabriel's isn't. There are hateful old fucks who want their own divine experience. 

There's delicious food waiting for all who wants. 

There's Crowley back at home. Aziraphale will come by the pub after the service and lunch. Crowley will kiss him again. 

And again. 

It should go on forever like washing flour out of Crowley's hair. 

Maybe they need to adopt. 

Maybe they need to cuddle and watch TV. 

Maybe they need to get married again. 

Aziraphale enters his church and breathes in deeply. 

"Thank you, Lord," he whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for choosing me for your Faust and for sending me your Mephisto."


End file.
